Eternal Spring
by Mark of the Asphodel
Summary: The capital of Aurelis in the year 1102. The City of Lights in an age of magic. A sweet schoolmistress and an notoriously corrupt nobleman have a rendezvous one spring evening. But, of course, absolutely nothing is as it appears....


**Eternal Spring**

_I do not own Fire Emblem or any of its characters._

_Warnings: Contains Xane and Tiki in the far future, implications of human/dragon pairings, implications of cross-dressing, and spoilers for FE3._

***

"Can anyone tell me the significance of the year 606?"

Several hands are raised-- timidly, like Bastian's in the second row, boldly, like Madeleine's in the back. She calls on Emile, who has put up his hand with a confidence untouched by the desire to show off to his fellows.

"That year marks the discovery of Valencia, teacher."

"Correct, Emile. The year 606 was a turning point in the history of Archanea, because it marked the first contact with the new continent of Valencia." She brushes the words on a light-board with her magic pen; the letters shine even to the back of the narrow classroom. "Now, can anyone tell me something important that came from contact with Valencia?"

One hand shoots up first, though many follow.

"Yes, Madeleine?"

"Chocolate!"

"Good." She writes "New Crops" upon the board, and puts everyone's favorite sweet at the head of list. "Chocolate and vanilla, maize and potatoes and red pepper, tomatoes and marrow-squash and Sofian climbing beans. Can you imagine living in a world without these things?"

Her students chorus that no, they cannot possibly imagine a world without vanilla custard, fried potatoes, or fresh grilled tomatoes. As she traces out the letters of each wonderful thing from the western land, she experiences a strangely vivid memory. For a moment, she tastes a sweet yellow pear-shaped tomato for the first time; it nearly explodes between her teeth, shooting tiny glistening seeds in all directions. But the moment passes, or more correctly, she shuts the memory off as one flicks off a lamp, and she resumes teaching history to a class of sixth-year students.

It proves difficult to shut off her memories for this particular lesson, as the glossy new textbook is not terribly accurate. The textbook, for example, states that Valencia was discovered by the great explorer Catria the White and her sisters in the year 606. It says that the king and queen of Valencia welcomed the military outposts established by Archanea in the six-twenties. It speaks of how grateful the simple, happy Valencians were to be placed under military protection by the year--

"Miss Henry?"

"Yes, Emile?" For he has been waiting patiently, hand raised all the while, as she sinks into a morass of things past.

"If we discovered Valencia in 606, why were they already using our calendar?"

"That is a good question, Emile. Early settlers from Archanea must have found the western world long before the seventh century, but they never returned and Archanean history has no trace of them. The White Sisters of Macedon are the first Archaneans to go to Valencia and come back with news of the other continent. They also of course introduced many of the wonderful foods we've talked about to _this_ continent."

The idea of a time before chocolate distracts her class until the leaving bell, and she never has to dip into the troublesome areas of diplomatic and military relationships between the two continents.

*

On her way back to her apartment, she stops at a confectionery and buys a packet of chocolates. She remembers well her first taste of chocolate, remembers the cold and gritty froth that was so bitter she spat out an entire mouthful of it onto an exquisite mosaic floor. The smooth and creamy balls infused with sugar, nuts, and spices bear no resemblance to chocolate as it was in the year 611. But very little in her world resembles 611 in the slightest. She walks through the paved streets lit by strings of colored lights, suspended in the air like a rainbow cloud of fireflies. Fountains of water tinted blue, rose, and violet spurt from almost every street-corner. Buildings taller than the highest tower at the time of Unification rise in fantastic shapes above the green treetops of Victory Park. The tallest, the lacy steel spire of Orleans Tower, sparkles with more colored lights that shout out _Bienvenue_ to all comers.

Marlon, capital of the Duchy of Orleans, is a place of true magic in the year 1102. The poorest resident in Marlon lives a life more pleasant than all but the richest nobles in the days just after Unification. Residents of Marlon drink water without fear of typhoid or cholera, enjoy fresh fruit in the short days of winter, and traverse the city streets in sleek carriages driven by intricate "thunder-engines." If a woman from Marlon should want to spend her holiday on one of the famous beaches of Altea, she need only step into one of the airships that float above the city, silent as soap-bubbles.

These delightful thoughts occupy her on her walk back to the apartment building; she smiles at the little man in quaint formal clothes who operates the lift-box that takes her to the fifth floor. The nameplate by her door reads "M. Henry." It, like so much else about her, is a fiction. Once she has the door securely locked behind her, once her jacket is placed upon its hook and her valise is set aside, she loosens her high collar and undoes the twist of her hair. As her unbound hair falls around her like a swirl of seaweed, the little schoolmistress becomes a dragon princess once more.

She is not Mademoiselle Henry, but Tiki of the Naga Clan.

*

She is combing her hair at her vanity table when the crack of displaced air announces a visitor. She is not especially shocked by the caller, and continues to arrange her hair while she addresses his reflection.

"_Bonsoir, Monsieur le Comte_. You know it is hardly proper to surprise a young lady in her apartments."

"Ah, but what else would one expect from the notorious Comte de Gabalis?" He makes an exaggerated bow in her direction; his title is as fictitious as her alias of Mlle Henry.

Tiki continues to observe him as she makes herself up for the night. Her visitor appears as a man in his early twenties, not especially tall and rather slight. Though his body is a man's, his features are still pretty—too pretty for a boy, perhaps, though not quite enough so for a girl. He does not look as though his face has ever known the touch of a razor, and this would perhaps seem curious to an onlooker. More curious still are his eyes-- a true red, the same hue as fresh blood.

The false Comte de Gabalis is watching _her_ now, and she averts her eyes from the mirror. She pretends to look over her hair-dressing set, the lovely pieces of ivory and gold that ought to be far beyond the salary of a humble schoolmistress. But then again, they are clearly very old, and might have been passed down through her family through the generations. But no one sees the apartments of Mademoiselle Henry other than her current visitor, and so no-one has ever asked about the antique brushes and combs.

When the tension in the room becomes uncomfortable for them both, she rises and embraces him at last, as a girl would embrace a male relative.

"You did cut your hair." It no longer hangs to his shoulders. She reaches out and plucks at the cropped red strands that are now short over the ears and scrape his collar at the back.

"Of course, my dear. The glorious world-traveler and man of mystery cannot be caught looking unfashionable." She does not miss the sarcasm that underscores each word; she hears even more bitterness as he says, "I no longer wear white feathers in my hair, either."

"I liked you better that way, Xane."

***

It hurts him, in some way, to see her like this—half-formed, half-dressed in the clothes of a "proper young lady." He taught her how to get by in the world of men—how to adjust herself in subtle ways to make her smooth skin less radiant, her green eyes less brilliant, her movements less graceful. When Tiki is in her glory, her body glistens like polished marble, her eyes shine like peridots in full sunlight. When she is in her true form, she would demolish this entire wretched building with her splendor. But for now, she is just a curiosity-- her eyes a little too bright, her ears beneath the jade ripples of hair pointed ever-so-slightly.

"_Camus et Nina_ is playing tonight," she says.

"I don't want to see that," he mutters. "I didn't like that story the _first_ time."

"The Sisters of Mila are performing a concert at the Peace Temple."

"I don't want to see that either." A gaggle of white-veiled nuns singing hymns to their useless Earth Goddess and her cult is not Xane's idea of a pleasant evening.

She toys with a strand of her hair, curling it about one delicately-formed ear, and her half-human guise bothers him all the more.

"I want to spend some real time with you, Xaney."

"Sitting in an opera house watching people sing themselves to death is hardly spending time with me. Why don't you come up with me to the mountains? The stars will be so bright, you'll feel like you can scoop them up by the handful."

"It's lonely up there," she replies. "And the sound of the wolves still scares me."

"There are no more wolves in Aurelis." He tells the truth, for the noble wolves have been hunted to the brink of non-existence, and survive only in the northern lands that humans haven't yet grasped for themselves.

"_Orleans_, Xaney."

It has been "Orleans" now for more than two hundred years.

In the end, he agrees to see the blasted opera with her. He, in his costume of the Comte de Gabalis, is already dressed for a night on the town, and Tiki dons an evening gown, a confection of lilac-colored satin and lace. Its collar is still too high, its silhouette too prim for his liking; she deserves so much more. The opal she wears about her neck is like a cheap facsimile of her dragonstone.

Her fragrance intrigues him, though. Now that the sages have unraveled the mysteries of flowers, humans go about drenched in synthetic scent-- rose, violet, jasmine, and Lady Mila's Tears. Their noses can't tell the difference between a true rose and a false one, but his certainly can. Whatever Tiki wears is fresh and floral and not too sweet—it smells like the color green, the pale green of newly-opened buds in the sunlight. Every molecule of it is real, distilled from living blossoms. She laughs as she catches him in the act of sniffing at her.

"Another thing no little school-mistress can possibly afford."

"Ah, but when a little school-mistress is on the arm of the Comte de Gabalis, all the world is at her disposal."

"Behave yourself, Xaney." She nudges him with the pointed end of her parasol. "If I were to get caught in public with the wicked, wicked Comte, it might cost me my situation."

"Then I shall merely be your well-traveled cousin Chainey, my dear Mademoiselle Henry."

*

"How many times have you seen this opera?" He asks it as they settle into her box, for the curiously extravagant little schoolmistress has a private box at the Orleans Opera.

"Seventy-three," she says without hesitation. _Camus et Nina_ has been inflicted upon him only eight times since its debut in 1016. The score is seared into his memory nonetheless; the story is nowhere near as timeless as the humans want to think, but the music isn't bad. He can suffer through it again, for her sake.

And suffer he does this evening; this production, though heartfelt, is not one of the best. The tenor and baritone both impress, but the soprano is shaky, and her rendition of _Nina's Lament_ suffers for it. Xane, bored with the melodrama, decides to watch the bit players instead—the tragicomic bumbling bishop and the ridiculously noble knights. He decides he quite enjoys the young mezzo who plays the part of the prince in the third act; something about the sight of a pretty girl in trousers is oddly alluring. He remembers the fierce young empress of a century ago—what was her name? Alexandrina? Caterina? The one who kept her hair bobbed short and wore male dress uniform. She'd been attractive, after a fashion, though she'd had that irritating habit of taking her rapier everywhere, even to the bedroom….

A small pathetic sound out of Tiki takes his attention away from the curious ways of Empress Caterina. She is crying. Even in the low light of the opera house, he sees the blots on her handkerchief.

"Stop it," he hisses; the colored tears will give her away. "Look, this isn't even the whole story. I've told you what happened to Nina and Camus in the end."

"I'm not really crying for them, not for the reasons you think," she says, and smiles through her ridiculous tears.

Xane fidgets in his chair, discomfited by the whole display. He takes his ill feeling out on the _prima donna_ soprano, and musters only polite claps when she sweeps forward to receive her share of acclaim. He saves his enthusiasm for the pretty mezzo; if he were truly playing the part of the wicked Comte tonight, he might already be down there, red roses in hand, to intercept her.

*

He takes her next to the cafe nestled in the shadow of Orleans Tower, a place known for its confections and its people-watching. Xane has little interest in the former and none in the latter, but the promise of hazelnut gateau and human company lifts Tiki out of her foolish bout of melancholy. She speaks to him as would a human girl catching up on the news with some distant relative. She talks of her occupation, of her dull little life here in Marlon, and says nothing of the wider world.

"I love my children. Of course next year they will go on to someone else, and not be mine anymore, but while they are mine I love them all."

"And then, you'll have to slip away before anyone can notice that the pretty young schoolmistress never ages a day."

"Yes." She draws a chocolate-sauce pattern on her dessert plate with the tines of her fork. "If I only looked a little older to start with, I could stay in one place a little longer...."

"Ah, Marthe. What a pleasant surprise!"

Tiki jumps in her seat; for one moment, her human body wavers, and Xane sees the peridot flash of her eyes beneath their dark lashes. Fortunately, the young man addressing her is as near-sighted as a mole, and doesn't notice in the least.

"Ah, Rene. I would have expected you to be studying at this hour."

"I was at a most _fascinating _lecture in the Left Quarter," says the young man with flyaway fair hair. He is, quite obviously, an associate of "Mademoiselle Henry" from their school. He is also obviously a mage; Xane can smell the aura of magic around him. "We had a specialist in eighth-century apocalyptic texts come in from Khadein--"

The youth peers through his spectacles and seems to notice Xane for the first time.

"Marthe, who is your gentleman friend?"

"This is Chainey, my cousin. He is studying abroad but has come to visit me for a few days."

They greet one another as humans do, and then this Rene character begins rhapsodizing about the apocalyptic texts, the predicted return of Medeus, and how it all got mixed up with the prophecies of Lord Doma at some point in the intervening centuries.

"What I find so terribly exciting is the way the role of Medeus mutates in-between the seventh and eight centuries. The transformation from the enemy of all mankind to the enemy of human sin occurs so suddenly-- the eight-thirties seem to be the turning point."

"Actually," Tiki says with a tiny cough, "the reversal started far earlier. _The Conversion of Lord Medeus_ was commissioned for the Bishop's Palace in Macedon as early as 617, and its counterpart _The Betrayal of Medeus_ came two years later. The role of Medeus in the War of Unification was de-emphasized all through the first half of the seventh century, and it was the human villains of the time held up for demonization."

Rene's spectacles slide down his nose and dangle there precariously; Xane resists the urge to shove them back on his pasty face.

"Marthe, I never took you for a scholar of dragonlore."

"It's not a very delicate pursuit, is it?" And she blushes so beautifully, even in her human guise. "My cousin Chainey here is the true expert-- he's traveled the world to study the dragonlore of the different continents."

And so she hands the hapless Rene over to Xane, as though giving him a new plaything. Xane fills the boy's head with a mix of the true and the false that Rene will never in a thousand years be able to untangle. And, of course, Rene will never have close to a thousand years.

When Rene finally takes leave of them, Xane is compelled to ask a hateful question.

"You would never think to love someone like that, would you?" He tries to say the words lightly, but they come out edged in disgust nonetheless.

"No," she replies, as sober as he is flippant. "If I did… every time I closed my eyes, they would age twenty years. And then one day…."

There is no need to say more. But she does say more, in a tiny voice, the voice of an eternal child.

"Xaney... I think one reason I like teaching history so much is that, if I see the world through the eyes of my students, then it doesn't feel as real to me. The memories become almost like someone else's memories, and then they're easier for me to carry. I can't lose those memories-- I don't want to-- but maybe I don't have to _feel_ them so keenly."

It makes sense to him. Xane is thinking of the first time he transformed for her-- assuming the shape of one of their long-lost acquaintances-- and found that Tiki could no longer laugh at the sight.

***

"Now, children. We did not only acquire nice things to eat from Valencia. What else did we get from them?"

"New weapons!"

"New animals."

"The faith of Lord Doma and Lady Mila," Bastian says quietly.

"Very good." She scribbles it all down on the light-board. "What else?"

"Sickness," says Emile.

"Yes, indeed. Is there any specific sickness that came here from Valencia?"

"Rabies?"

"No, not rabies. Anyone else?"

Her handwriting was terrible during that lesson, Tiki thinks as she erases the list at the end of class. It was a wonder anyone could read a thing.

She hails a horseless cab and goes to the _Musée des Beaux-Arts_. She walks through the galleries until she reaches one of its prize works, a meticulous copy of the _Divine Dragon Child_. Tiki-pretending-to-be-human stares for a great time at the oil paint and canvas that pretends to be Tiki. She stares without blinking, but the picture has no need to blink, either, and eventually Tiki looks away. She then goes to see her favorite set of watercolors from the end of the ninth century, and leaves in a far more cheerful mood than she arrived.

***

Tiki seems ecstatic to see him when he next drops in on her. She doesn't feign sophisticated languor whilst combing out her hair, for a start.

"Xaney, let's go for a ride."

He imagines she means a ride in an airship, but she actually wants to go about the city in an old-fashioned carriage drawn by mismatched horses. She nestles against him in the seat, only pulling away to point out some exciting thing going on outside the carriage-- a man juggling sticks of fire, a woman accompanied by a flock of parrots, a little monkey dressed up as an archbishop.

"Everyone is so happy," she sighs as they pass beneath the graceful elms of the _Chère Reine_ district.

He can't prevent himself from narrowing his eyes at her naïve words, though he does manage to keep himself from telling it to her straight, from telling her that even here, in a city where humans no longer have _needs_, only _wants_, the ornate facades and grand boulevards are the cover-up for lives consumed by grief and rage, jealousy and deceit, low-level betrayals and terminal boredom. Every vice lurks yet in the heart of man, concealed under silk hats, double-breasted jackets, smiles and a cascade of synthetic violet scent. Hate didn't simply dissolve from their hearts when the swords were put down so long ago; with their enemies vanquished, they find new ones—phantoms of paranoia conjured up to fill some void in their empty lives. Xane has seen it and knows it, as he knows all the stories that never make it into the neatly printed papers that "respectable" humans take as a window on the world—like the story of the six-year-old girl found dead in the fountain at Victory Park, with finger-marks around her tiny neck.

Tiki looks at the humans and sees their smiling faces, hears their kind words, and accepts it all, just as she accepts what she reads in the respectable journals. Xane sees a pack of animals in fancy-dress, kept tethered only by their own mutable notions of civilized behavior. One decent man in a century does not a decent species make, any more than a single faltering swallow makes summer out of midwinter.

Tiki will see through his eyes one day, though it might take her another six hundred years. But all that belongs to a future unwritten—or, perhaps, written but unrevealed. In the here and the now, the last princess of the Naga spends her days teaching ancient history to a room of human children. And in this moment, her head is resting on his shoulder.

"You're still one special kid," he says to her. "I mean it."

"Xaney—Chainey… do you always have to leave me alone?"

"Maybe," he says. In his heart, he knows himself to be a wanderer. His world—the one he was born to, and had a place in—has been dead for sixteen centuries now. All Tiki has ever known is the Age of Men, and she fancies she has a place in their world. He doesn't want to ever be tied down to a human hive like this, or Pales, or Altea City, but perhaps one day he will pull Tiki free from the world, and they'll drift together on the currents of time like silent silver airships, beyond the call of human voices.

"Would you come back and see me more often?" she asks now.

"Yeah. I will, Tiki. I promise I'll see you more often."

"Really?" Skepticism surfaces in those gem-like eyes. "I mean in human time, Chainey."

"I promise!" For her, he binds himself just a little more to time as measured out in mechanical clock-strikes and chiming temple bells.

At the end of their evening, she kisses him-- not on the cheek, like a little sister, but on the lips. It's a dry little peck, the kiss of a girl who has only touched her lips to prayer-books and statues, but it is a change that makes the dragon's blood race through his human form.

"I'll be waiting for you," she whispers.

"I'll come to you. I promise."

As he takes up his hat, a white feather falls out of it.

"Wear it for me." She gives him a side-long glance beneath demure lashes, and her eyes sparkle like polished peridot. "Surely the wicked Comte de Gabalis can stand a little talk about his habits."

He tosses the hat to the floor, sets the feather behind his ear, and warps himself away. In the space between one reality and the next, Xane thinks he hears laughter.

**The End**

Author's Notes: This one was months in development, but finally all came together. Trufax: Xane really does loathe humans in general, and Medeus was once a good guy... er, dragon... who was essentially screwed over by the humans he bent over backwards to help. Hence his Destroy All Humans kick in the games. The Conversion/Betrayal diptych is meant as a reference to those pre-game events. Oh, yes-- please x-ref Xane's "Comte de Gabalis" alias, as it's not random.


End file.
